The texture of the voice played on the skin of my inner ear like a fine-grit sandpaper coated in hot milk.
What kind of place you running here? it demanded.
I stammered. I don’t. I just. Work here.
She heard it immediately.
(more…)
The Motel Americana is a real place. Its name is a fake. All the names you’ll hear, in fact, have been changed, but changed not in order to protect the innocent, and not even to protect the assortment of guilty, ridiculous,desperate, murderous, murdered, maimed, love struck, marginalized and/or woefully tragic lodgers about whom these odd and lovely stories are told, but to protect me, yours truly, Jack Same.
(more…)